


The Yellow Angel

by AliceMarylin1999



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1930s, Historical, Historical References, M/M, Russian Literature, Sad Crowley (Good Omens), World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28634082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceMarylin1999/pseuds/AliceMarylin1999
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale attend the performance of a legendary Russian singer and poet Alexander Vertinskiy in Paris, 1930.Loosely based on Vertinskiy's own autobiography."The singer is no aristocrat", Aziraphale spoke as he bent over the table. " I read about him. He travelled from South of the Russian Empire to Moscow, he was a sensation pre-revolution, he served as a feldsher in the Great War, and was still immensely popular after the Bolsheviks took power... But he left. They say - out of curiosity, to see the world. And now he wants to come back. But they won't take him back. He writes letters to Molotov, to Stalin himself, every year... To no avail. They just won't have him"Crowley snorted."What's so funny, my dear? ", Aziraphale asked disappovingly. " I find it rather sad. Poor man is so homesick. It's something I won't wish on anyone""Nothing", Crowley nodded. " You wouldn't understand. Just... Don't miracle him coming back if you plan to. Not yet, anyway"
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	The Yellow Angel

_December 25th, 1930_

"We could be getting royally drunk right now. Anywhere, I mean, anywhere posh and decadent and chic. Not that we are short of money... And of all places, you drag me here, angel. Make it make sense"  
Crowley sat beside a brightly colored table that was a little bit too low for him, as he struggled to place his legs underneath it comfortably. He changed his posture every couple of seconds neurotically, and even though his eyes were soundly covered with dark, impermeable shades of black glass, the rest of his face manifestated it perfectly clear, how deeply unpleased he was.   
Aziraphale, on the other hand, looked perfectly content. He sat with his back straight, not looking too uptight, but rather relaxed.   
"Really, Crowley", he said with a faint smile of mild disapproval. "One evening, just one out of an entire month. You have the last say in all our endeavors the rest of the time. Let me have this one"  
"I do not! ", Crowley objected. "I cater to your every whim for decades now! "  
"Or so you want me to believe. You never let any minor annoyance slip my attention. Like you do now"  
"It's no mild annoyance", Crowley muttered gloomily, looking the other way. " I just hate these electric lights and epileptic glitter and frantic noise. There is no style and no pleasure in it. It's useless torture for a perfectly innocent serpent, who, for his own bad luck, consorted... "  
"I hate the place and the light as much as you do", Aziraphale interrupted him. " And keep it low with the "consorting" speech, will you? "  
"Then why the hell are we here, then? ", Crowley whispered angrily, as he turned to Aziraphale. " You got too deep in Freud's masochism theory or what? Got too comfortable and decided to suffer a bit, for a change?"  
"I want to see the singer. He plays here every Sunday. I like him so much, you won't believe it... And I need your help"  
"For what? I doubt you need anyone's help if you tried to tempt him to practically anything"  
"No", Aziraphale cut him off seriously. " I need someone to translate the song. He sings in Russian, only in Russian. And the public is mostly Russian emigrants, but the French love him too. Still he never humors them by switching to French. Never"

"Oh, I see now", Crowley nodded. "Hence the blinding flashlights of excessive jewelry on virtually bloody anyone. Whatever they can't sell for an ounce of original price, they put on themselves as they go out to cheap havens like this. Tsarist nobleman way. So much for aristocratic dignity"  
"The singer is no aristocrat", Aziraphale spoke as he bent over the table. " I read about him. He travelled from South of the Russian Empire to Moscow, he was a sensation pre-revolution, he served as a feldsher in the Great War, and was still immensely popular after the Bolsheviks took power... But he left. They say - out of curiosity, to see the world. And now he wants to come back. But they won't take him back. He writes letters to Molotov, to Stalin himself, every year... To no avail. They just won't have him"

Crowley snorted.   
"What's so funny, my dear? ", Aziraphale asked disappovingly. " I find it rather sad. Poor man is so homesick. It's something I won't wish on anyone"  
"Nothing", Crowley nodded. " You wouldn't understand. Just... Don't miracle him coming back if you plan to. Not yet, anyway"

The electric light went off as the stage lightened. A tall man in black tuxedo approached the microphone. Fair hair, elegant hands, but nothing special about him. Except for maybe the eyes - shiny and silvery, so bright they were seen even from the back row of the tables, where Aziraphale and Crowley sat. 

  
"Will you translate the song? Please? ", Aziraphale asked, looking Crowley in the eyes, longingly.   
Crowley rolled his eyes underneath the glasses, and nodded. 

The man begane singing:

В вечерних ресторанах,  
В парижских балаганах,   
В дешевом электрическом раю,  
Всю ночь ломаю руки  
От ярости и муки  
И людям что-то жалобно пою.

(In night restaurants  
In parisian booths,   
In the cheap electric heaven  
I wringe my hands in wrath and agony  
The entire night  
And sing some pittiful songs to the people) 

"He calls this place a cheap electric heaven, you probably will like this one, and feels utterly pitiful for himself for singing for these fine people"

Звенят, гудят джаз-банды,  
И злые обезьяны  
Мне скалят искалеченные рты.  
А я, кривой и пьяный,  
Зову их в океаны  
И сыплю им в шампанское цветы.

(The jazz band is ringing, growling  
And wicked monkeys  
Are grinning with deformed mouths  
And I, drunk and crooked,   
Call them to the ocean  
And throw the flowers into their champagne) 

"Now he calls his public evil monkeys who grin angrily and calls himself a crooked drunk. You still sure you like him? "

The singer was a real actor as well - even though he sang in a foreign language, the message of his song was not hard to understand. All his gestures and grimaces worked far better than any interpretation Crowley could master in seconds. 

А когда наступит утро, я бреду бульваром сонным,  
Где в испуге даже дети убегают от меня.  
Я усталый, старый клоун, я машу мечом картонным,  
И лучах моей короны умирает светоч дня.

(And when the morning comes  
I stroll down the boulevard, drowsily  
And even little children ran away in fright  
I am a weary, old clown  
I am waving a paper sword  
And the last ray of light dies in my crown. ) 

Crowley frowned for a second. 

"He's back at pitying himself, but now claims to be a king and a clown at the same time. Also he thinks he's so ugly while being exhausted that he can scare away the children. I doubt it. From my experience, children are never easily frightened"

Звенят, гудят джаз-банды,  
Танцуют обезьяны  
И бешено встречают Рождество.  
А я, кривой и пьяный,  
Заснул у фортепьяно  
Под этот дикий гул и торжество.

(The jazz-band is jiggling and buzzing  
The monkeys are dancing  
And celebrating this mad Christmas  
And I, crooked and drunk,   
Am asleep beside the piano  
Amidst this wild roar and festivity) 

"So, he's back at this monkey metaphor. The music playing he calls buzzing and roaring and once again he confesses to getting absolutely wasted, now even going as far as napping on the piano. I guess we are yet to see this part if we stay long enough"

На башне бьют куранты,  
Уходят музыканты,  
И елка догорела до конца.  
Лакеи тушат свечи,  
Давно замолкли речи,  
И я уж не могу поднять лица.

(The towers are chiming  
The musicians are leaving  
And the Christmas tree is burning no more  
The lackeys are putting down the candles  
The voices have faded  
And I can no longer raise my head) 

"Now he looks forward to the part where everyone has left, and he lies miserably with his head on the table, unable to move, and even Christmas tree is dim and dark. "

И тогда с потухшей елки тихо спрыгнул желтый Ангел  
И сказал: «Маэстро бедный, Вы устали, Вы больны.  
Говорят, что Вы в притонах по ночам поете танго.  
Даже в нашем добром небе были все удивлены».

(And by then, from the top of the dimmed Christmas tree,   
A yellow Angel softly descended  
And he spoke: "Oh, poor maestro  
You are sick and so weary!   
They say you sing tango in the filthy dens at nights  
And even we, in our good heavens  
Were so astonished!) 

Crowley turned his head from the stage to Aziraphale, shallowing uneasily, as if he didn't want to go on. But within a second of hesitation, he continued. 

"He describes something of an angel... A yellow one. See, not you. You're not yellow. So this angel of his gives him backhanded pity, saying the Heaven is so very disappointed at a fine artist like himself wasting away his talent grimacing nightly for unworthy public. Namely, us, at the moment "

  
Aziraphale's face changed from amusement to sadness, and he looked at Crowley in disbelief, but then briefly looked back at the stage. 

И, закрыв лицо руками, я внимал жестокой речи,  
Утирая фраком слезы, слезы боли и стыда.  
А высоко в синем небе догорали божьи свечи  
И печальный желтый Ангел тихо таял без следа.

(And so I, my face in my hands,   
Gave in to this cruel speech  
Wiping away the tears with a tailcoat  
The tears of pain, the tears of shame  
... And in the high blue sky  
God's candles were burning down  
And this sorrorful yellow angel  
Slowly melted down   
Without a trace) 

Crowley signed as the music ended. 

"Do I really need to go on? The angel melted away and the singer weeped pathetically, using his tuxedo as a handkerchief. The end"

Aziraphale gazed at the stage, without blinking, his eyes sparky and moist. The woman who played piano started a new song - a somewhat merry and uplifting tango, and the man went on singing happily, as if the previous song wasn't a heartbreaking confession. 

Aziraphale stood up and swiftly went out of the restaurant, without looking back. He even forgot his goddamn hat on the table, Crowley thought in frustration, as he followed him on the street. 

Heavy, watery snow was falling mercilessly. The angel was standing under the streetlight, illuminated by the morbid, yellowish light. 

"Now you're the yellow angel", Crowley spoke softly as he approached him.   
" Unbelievable ", Aziraphale muttered, teary-eyed, looking away, trying very hard to hide what he felt. " I shouldn't be shocked by your cruelty by now, I know who you are, but still... To mock the man in such an agony... Really, Crowley. I thought I knew you better. I was wrong, I guess"  
"I wasn't mocking him, angel", Crowley said, with unexpected softness in his voice, and put his hand on Aziraphale's shoulder. "I do pity him. I just now it's not how things will be for him forever. It will turn out fine"  
"How do you know? ", Aziraphale asked in surprise, turning his head to Crowley. His face now looked absolutely golden in this cheap electric lamplight. Is it about the angelic nature, Crowley thought, or the way I see him?   
The demon looked down.   
" Oh... I see", Aziraphale said, disappointment ear in his voice. "So you do know him. You just wanted to keep it from me for some reason "  
"I didn't know it was going to be Vertinskiy until I saw him on stage. Then I did realize it was him, of course. I saw him many times, even back in Moscow in 1917. But more recently, in Istanbul and other places"  
"But how do you know his fate? "  
Crowley signed. 

"It surprises me how little you know about your own side, Aziraphale. It's like I get all the heavenly rumors before you do. That is, if you do at all. Seems like you're not interested in anything beyond your bookshop and occasional travelling... Alright,I will tell you this, but only if you promise we are moving somewhere. I do not intend to freeze under wet snowfall, all due respect"  
Aziraphale nodded silently and gave him his hand. They headed towards the angel's parisian apartment, which seemed much closer when it wasn't storming like that and now looked like it was miles and miles away.   
"So, you see... Sasha, as he was called by his friends and family, has a very peculiar life",Crowley started. "A bastard son of an aristocratic woman and a merchant father, orphaned at a very young age, travelling his entire life: from Kiev to Moscow to Saint-Petersburg and Moscow again... He was always meant to be a performer, but in the early days all the artist turned him down. He did star in some silent movies, but fell victim of cocaine addiction, and narrowly escaped death... That's when the Great War started. You see, as he worked tirelessly as a medical attendant, performing thousands of bandages and even saving a few lives, God and Heavens felt a certain mercy for him and made a promise to him - for every bandage he did he will be applauded by the audience, a thousand fold. And it came true. He came back and quickly became a sensation. They called him A Black Pierrot, for he usually performed in a costume of a sad clown... Everything he ever wanted, he got when he came back".

"He didn't seem like a man who got everything he ever wanted. In fact, he didn't seem like a man who still wanted anything at all"

  
"That is because he thought of what he wanted at that time, not what he really needed. He left Russia when he was young, chasing adventures and didn't think twice, he didn't know back then he won't be able to come back. And when he did realize it, well... It was too late. All the glory and money and glamour, all the things he dreamt of as a little thief in the corners of Kiev, it all was worth absolutely nothing without having a homeland. "

  
Aziraphale stopped at the doorstep of his house. It was funny how it took them so little time to get there, when it seemed so distant when they started going... 

  
"And yet you seem so certain he will come back one day", Aziraphale said, now silver in the moonlight, instead of golden. 

"I am certain. It's just not his time yet. He hasn't properly atoned for his betrayal "

  
"It's not a betrayal", Aziraphale shook his head. "It's cruel! All he did was leave for a while, he didn't spy, he didn't trade any secrets... Why cast out such a talented man for one simple mistake? "

  
"You ask your own people the same question, angel", Crowley smiled with sadness. " At least the Soviets leave him with some hope of taking him back one day. When he proves to be trustworthy enough. What about me? I will never be suited to come back from where I came from"

  
"Do you want to? "

  
Crowley was silent for a moment.   
"No. Not anymore. I want to stay here. As long as possible"

  
The wind was blowing more and more loudly, but at the back of his head Crowley still heard the sound of piano. Aziraphale's eyes, usually celestial blue, were almost silver grey now - same as those of the singer. 

  
"Good night, Crowley. And... Merry Christmas. "

  
"I will see you in the year nineteen-thirty one"

Aziraphale closed the door, and Crowley was left alone with the parisian night, wet snow and a distant nostalgia for something he surely never had in the first place. 


End file.
